“It is midnight,” she answered after checking her watch.
“New Year’s.” He met her gaze. “Guess Ma’d be glad we saw it in, like she always did.” He stepped toward Inga.
The barn seemed suddenly warm, close, and intimate. Inga forgot the calf. Forgot the miracle of new birth. Forgot what Dirk had said to her. Everything was forgotten except his sudden nearness and the way being with him made her heart race. “Ja.” The word came out on a sigh.
He frowned, as if puzzled by her one-word response. “Come on. You look beat.”
She didn’t feel the least bit tired.
He took her by the arm and propelled her toward the barn door. But when he stopped to put out the lantern, he glanced her way once more. His frown deepened into a scowl.
Unconsciously, she swayed toward him.
“Happy New Year, Mrs. Bridger,” he said, his voice low and gruff. Then he took her by the shoulders, and she knew he was about to kiss her.
Inga tipped her head back, waited for him to lean down to her, knew their mouths would fit together perfectly.
But instead of kissing her on the lips, he dropped a light peck on her forehead before turning away and extinguishing the lantern.
His rejection couldn’t have been any more clear.
Saturday, January 1, 1898
Uppsala, Iowa
Dearest Beth,
I write to you with remarkable news. Yesterday, I was married to Mr. Dirk Bridger. It was all very sudden. We were married in the parsonage with family and friends in attendance. We wanted to marry quietly as Mr. Bridger lost his mother only a week ago.
I will not pretend to you, my dear friend, that this was a love match on my husband’s part. While I have confessed my deep feelings for him to you in an earlier letter, his feelings for me are mostly gratitude for what help I can give him with the children. It would have been impossible for him to manage without someone to help him. Martha tries very hard, but she has yet to have her sixth birthday. And little Suzanne? She is full of vinegar, as her grandmamma called it.
So now this farm is my home and not simply my place of employment. I am not certain I quite believe it myself, although I am here and I am wearing the wedding band he placed on my finger himself. I keep a secret hope in my heart that one day Dirk will feel more for me than gratitude or friendship, but I will be happy even if it is never more than what it is today.
I hope you are doing well. I have nearly finished the quilt I am making for the newest member of the Steele family, and I will send it to you soon so you will have it before your confinement commences.
And speaking of my quilts, you will never believe what has happened. Many in Uppsala have taken great interest in my particular kind of quilting. Mrs. Dolk at the general store has offered some for sale, and already I have earned nearly fifteen dollars. Can you imagine? It seems a fortune. Next she says she is going to send some quilts to her sister who runs a general store in Des Moines. She is certain I will soon not be able to keep up with the demand.
When Mrs. Dolk first suggested I sell my quilts, I thought it a foolish idea. But now it seems there is much I want to do for Dirk and the children, and the money would be a blessing.
I will close and hope to post this letter soon. Winter has arrived in the county with wailing winds and much snow, so I do not know when I will next be able to get to town to mail this letter or the one I have written to Mary.
Do write to me soon.
With affection,
Inga Bridger
Thirteen
The frigid temperature held Iowa in its unforgiving grip throughout January. The Bridgers lost two milk cows and one newborn calf to the cold. A series of blinding snowstorms shut down all transportation for over a week. What milk the family was unable to use themselves went to waste.
Night after night, Inga watched her new husband sitting at the kitchen table, staring at his logbooks and ledgers, his forehead creased with concern. She longed to comfort him, but the invisible wall he’d erected between them on their wedding night stood strong and invincible. Without words, he’d made it perfectly clear he didn’t want the succor of a wife.
In the wintery month that followed their wedding, their separate roles in the household became well defined. Inga cooked and cleaned and looked after the children. In the evenings, she worked on her quilts, sometimes on the ones she hoped to sell, sometimes on those she was making for Martha and Suzanne. Dirk took care of the livestock and the milking. He chopped cord after cord of wood for the stove and fireplace. He spent the better part of every day in the barn and his evenings with his ledgers.
Inga no longer helped him with the milking, because Dirk had told her he didn’t need her help now. Several more cows were dry, he’d explained, awaiting the births of their calves. Besides, he’d added, he didn’t mind working alone.
She hadn’t let him see how this latest rejection wounded her. What right had she to do so? She had entered this marriage knowing he only wanted a housekeeper, knowing he didn’t really want a wife.
There were moments in her days when she knew contentment, perhaps even some satisfaction. Usually they were times spent with the children. Martha and Suzanne could still make her laugh. They were generous with their love, and Inga soaked it up and returned it twofold. Sometimes, she looked at them and the longing for a baby of her own would overwhelm her, sting her eyes with unshed tears.
But she never let Dirk see anything but smiles. She never uttered a negative word in his presence. Perhaps it was her pride again. She hadn’t wanted others to know she’d married for less than love. Now she didn’t want her husband to know she was less than satisfied with the bargain she had made. She’d thought being with him would be enough. She’d discovered it wasn’t. She wanted more. So very much more.
With the arrival of February came a respite from the storms. The gray clouds that had covered the heavens for many weeks drifted away, leaving behind a sky so blue it hurt the eyes to look at it. It was on one such day that Inga’s sisters came for a visit.
“Mamma wouldn’t have let us come sooner,” Thea told her as Inga collected their coats, “even if weather had permitted. She said newlyweds need time alone.”
Inga nodded, but thought to herself, I am too much alone.
She was glad her parents hadn’t come with her sisters. She was certain her mamma would have seen through her veneer of pretended happiness.
“We’ve brought money from Mrs. Dolk. She has sold two more of your quilts.” Thea glanced behind her at their younger sisters, then looked at Inga and in a hushed voice asked, “Is it wonderful, Inga? Is it wonderful to be married? Do you feel different now? Older?”
She felt the threat of tears and turned quickly away. “Ja,” she whispered. “It is wonderful.”
Thea’s hand alighted on her shoulder as she leaned forward, bringing her mouth close to Inga’s ear. “I must go to New York City soon. Karl arrives in four weeks. I must be there to meet him. You have not forgotten? You will help me with the train fare to New York?”
“I have not forgotten.” She made a quick decision. “You may keep the money from Mrs. Dolk.”
“Thank you. I will never forget.” Thea’s fingers tightened. “There is something else. I cannot ask Mamma about it. You know. About what it is like, a man and a woman together. You must tell me, Inga.”
“Oh, Thea. I cannot.”
“But who else am I to ask?”
Fortunately—or perhaps not—Dirk chose that precise moment to come inside after putting the Linberg horses in the barn. For an instant, his gaze met with hers, and the longing to be near him, to lie in his arms, to be held and kissed and loved, to be desired, to experience for herself the mystery of the marriage bed, was too great to bear. Inga was ashamed, ashamed that she was so undesirable. Never had she resented being what she was—tall, thin, ordinary, or even worse, plain—as much as she did now.
For his part, Dirk was glad the Linberg sisters had come a visitin
g. While these gay, giggling girls were present, he could temporarily forget not only his financial worries but his confusion about his wife. More and more often in the weeks since their wedding, he’d found himself wanting to undo his promise of a celibate union. He’d found himself looking at Inga and wondering why he’d never before noticed the pretty shape of her ears or how the subtle lemon verbena fragrance she wore seemed so right with the color of her hair or how enticing the curve of her gracefully long neck was. That’s why he’d spent so many aimless hours in the barn, cold and alone. Not because he still had chores to do, but because he was avoiding Inga.
Avoiding her because she wasn’t like the women who had peppered his past. Intimacy with her would change everything—his plans for the future, her plans for the future. He knew, at some deep level, that it would change him inside, too. Change him in some indefinable but very permanent way.
And he wasn’t ready for that change, whatever it might be.
The house seemed too quiet, too empty to Inga after her four boisterous sisters left. Secretly, she had been both delighted and tortured by Dirk’s participation in the visit. He had remained in the house the entire time they were there. Inga had seen his smile, listened to his laughter, and wondered why he didn’t smile and laugh when it was just the two of them. Somewhat bitterly, she’d been forced to acknowledge that she was not the cause for it now. No, it was her pretty, merry sisters who’d brought cheer back into this house.
Now, hours later, the memory of those smiles, the echo of that laughter replayed in her mind as she stared into the fire. Why, God? she thought angrily. Why didn’t you make me more like Gunda or Kirsten? Why did you make me like I am? Self-pity brought tears to her eyes, and the tears only increased her anger.
She rose from her chair and wordlessly headed for the stairs. Her silence mattered to no one, for she was alone, as was usually the case. The girls were long since asleep, and Dirk was in the barn—again.
When she entered her bedroom, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. Slowly, she walked toward it, the bitter taste of self-pity growing stronger on her tongue. She stopped and stared at her image, hating what she saw, hating what she was becoming—a bitter old maid. Only no one else knew she was an undesirable old maid. Except Dirk. He knew.
No one will ever want you, you fool. Not Dirk. Not anyone.
Her vision blurred as tears welled in her eyes, then trickled down her cheeks, unchecked.
She remembered thinking, the day Dirk had proposed, that she would have been wiser to refuse him, but she’d held onto a fragile hope that he would learn to love her, given time. What a fool she’d been. He scarcely knew she was alive. She was like a piece of furniture, simply a part of the house.
You are nothing but a bitter, unloved, homely old maid.
“Inga?”
She thought she’d imagined his voice. She’d imagined it so often in the past. She even heard him in her dreams.
“Inga, what’s wrong?” His blurry image appeared behind her in the mirror.
She tried to swallow the lump in her throat.
“Tell me.”
“I wish I was pretty like Thea and the others,” she answered, then was blinded by more tears, appalled that she’d confessed her thoughts aloud.
“What?” He placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned in closer to her.
“I am so very plain,” she whispered. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling miserable and hating herself for it.
“Plain? But you’re wrong.” His fingers tightened gently. “Open your eyes, Inga. Look at me.”
She shook her head, not sure if she hated herself more for her own self-pity or for revealing that self-pity to Dirk.
“Inga, look at me.” He spoke more sharply this time.
See what she’d done? Now she’d made him angry.
“Inga…”
She opened her eyes and met his gaze in the mirror.
“Now look at yourself,” he commanded.
She obeyed.
As she watched, he pulled the pins from her hair and let it cascade down her back. He ran his fingers through the fallen tresses, lifting it and loosing it again, letting it rain over her shoulders.
“It’s like satin,” he said, a note of surprise in his voice. He leaned closer and took a deep breath. “And it smells like lemons. Clean. Fresh. Like you.”
Inga forgot to breathe.
His hands slipped to her jaw, framing her face and forcing her to look straight into the mirror. “Look at your eyes. They’re the color of a robin’s eggs. Or maybe the powdery blue of a late summer sky. Did you know, whenever you look at Martha and Suzanne, that anybody on God’s green earth can see how much you care for ‘em?”
Her eyes had always seemed too pale to her, too colorless.
“And your mouth. I remember thinking it’s like a bow on a Christmas package. When you smile, the goodness in your heart is there for all to see.”
Like a bow? Her mouth?
His left hand slid backward, looping her hair behind her ear. “Such pretty ears. Like seashells.”
She gasped when he leaned closer and nibbled the tender lobe.
“Pink. Sweet.”
There was a strange whooshing sound in her head, leaving her dizzy and making it difficult for her to hear what he was saying.
Dirk’s other hand traced the curve of her neck. “Such an elegant throat,” he whispered as he met her gaze in the mirror once again. “Have you ever seen a swan gliding across a lake? Elegant, like you.”
If he brushed his lips against her neck, she would faint dead away.
“You’re not plain, Inga.”
But you don’t want me either.
His eyes seemed to darken, and she had the feeling he’d read her thoughts. A shiver ran along her spine. She longed to turn around, to face him, but she had neither the strength nor the courage.
He cleared his throat, removed his hands, stepped back from her. She followed his movements in the mirror, still unable to speak for lack of breath.
“You’re not plain, Inga,” he said again, his voice deep and husky. “Don’t ever think it.” Then he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.
With a sigh, Inga sagged against the mirror, glad for the cool feel of the glass against her skin. Little by little, her tilting, careening world began to right itself.
She straightened, stepped back from the mirror, stared once again at her reflection. She still saw the same person she’d always seen in the looking glass. She wasn’t pretty like her sisters and would never be so. Yet she knew Dirk hadn’t said anything out of pity or mere kindness. He had been telling her what he truly thought.
As the import of his words washed over her, she realized Dirk wanted her in the way a husband was supposed to want a wife.
She turned toward the door.
But if he did, why had he walked away? Why had he left her alone once again?
Her gaze shifted to the bureau on the opposite side of the room. Then, as if drawn there by an invisible cord, she went to it and opened the center drawer. There, lying where she’d placed it over a month before, was the white nightgown her mother had given Inga on the morning of her wedding. With trembling fingers, she lifted it from the drawer and clutched it close.
Could she do this? she wondered. Could she really do this?
Dirk lay on his bed, an arm thrown over his eyes to shut out the moonlight streaming through his window. But it didn’t matter whether his room was brightened by moonlight or was cloaked in darkness. He wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. Not while images of Inga still flitted through his mind. Not while the fragrance of her cologne still lingered in his nostrils.
What had he been thinking? Why had he stopped at her bedroom door? Why hadn’t he ignored what he’d seen, gone on to his room, and left well enough alone?
He knew the answer to his silent questions. He’d been stopped by her tears. Only when his ma died had Dirk seen Inga cry. In
all the weeks since then, she’d seemed content with their living arrangements, with her life on the Bridger farm. Seeing her with tears streaking her cheeks had undone him. He would have tried anything to make her smile again. Inga deserved to be happy, and he knew he was the reason she wasn’t.
He heard his door open. Expecting one of the children, he moved his arm and opened his eyes just as the door closed again.
Like an apparition, she stepped into the moonlight. It washed over her pale hair and white nightgown, making her seem more a dream than reality.
“Dirk?” she whispered.
“What are you doing here, Inga?”
“Do not send me away.” She moved to the side of his bed. “Please.”
“You shouldn’t—”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“No one need ever know.”
His throat was so tight it nearly strangled him. “When you marry again—”
“I do not care. Kiss me, Dirk. Please.”
When he heard the break in her voice, the last of his arguments vanished. He was powerless to send her away.
Fourteen
What have I done?
Clad once again in his long underwear and socks, Dirk sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his thighs while he cradled his head in his hands. It was five o’clock in the morning, and he’d been awake for hours. Behind him, he could hear Inga’s soft, steady breathing.
She’d been lovely, perfect, wonderful in every way. Too wonderful.
Their marriage was to have been a temporary situation. Just until the girls were old enough to take care of themselves. Now…last night…
Dirk hadn’t wanted a real marriage. He’d wanted to be able to leave one day without guilt. He was so tired of feeling guilty! He’d wanted to shuck the heavy chains of responsibility that bound him to this miserable farm, to his brother’s life instead of his own. Once the girls were old enough, he’d wanted to walk away without a backward glance and live the way he’d always planned on living. He could have done that if he’d been able to give Inga an annulment, but now…
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